Walking The Labyrinth
by Sapphire Warrioress
Summary: While investigating a murder in Cornwall, Holmes and Watson undergo a dangerous ordeal, in hopes of corroborating their suspicions. It will test their friendship, courage, and strength, for many walk the labyrinth, but few emerge unscathed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is based on the BBC's excellent adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, starring Clive Merrison. It takes place during the episode the devil's foot, and is my attempt to explain what took place when the friends performed their dangerous experiment.

Holmes

"There is one final test we could make." I spoke hesitantly, unwilling to give my idea voice, for if I was to be honest with myself I was not anxious to experience the affects of such a dangerous poison. Having witnessed the havoc it could wreak, I had no desire for Watson or myself to become its latest victims.

"Yes, there is." My dear friend met my gaze with a look of unwavering trust and calm which astonished me.

"We must light the lamp." I spoke with a mixture of forced calm and confidence.

My friend replied at once, his gaze as it met mine full of determination and unshakable loyalty which I considered a treasure beyond price.

"And burn the crystals.

"Watson, you've seen the affects these crystals produce. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"If I say no, you'll do it alone won't you."

"It's necessary."

"Then we'll see it out together." I grasped my comrade's shoulder briefly, hoping to convey through this simple gesture the gratitude and awe I felt, that he was willing to participate in this dangerous experiment.

Having taken all precautions, we returned to our chairs to await developments. The only sounds to be heard were the far off crash of waves, and the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Watson sat across from me, and although he strove to conceal it, I sensed that he was as nervous and fearful about this course of action as me. Indeed, he reminded me in that moment of a warrior preparing for battle, and in a sense I expect that we were. But this would be a battle fought within the labyrinthine corridors of the mind. A war based not on deductive reasoning, or logical methods of elimination, but strength of will alone.

And only God knew if we would be victorious.

And so we waited, in an atmosphere fraught with apprehension, determined to glean what we could from this experiment, and thus bring an end to this tragic and perplexing affair.

I have witnessed many strange and unsettling things in my life, but the darkness which began to invade my senses was of a kind I have never seen before. It was neither the darkness of a room devoid of light, nor the pitch black of a starless evening. Instead, it held a distinct quality of menace, as if every horrific memory or nightmare were awaiting some unspoken command to rush upon me unawares.

Determinedly I sought to quell my rising fear, telling myself that Watson and I had taken precautions against this devilish stuff, and that at the first sign of trouble we were to immediately cease this experiment. But all of my logical reasoning and rational words of reassurance proved fruitless against the coming impressions.

Out of the darkness arose the spectral form of a dog. Though it had been years since the affair my friend had named The Hound of The Baskervilles, the sight of that ghostly animal sent a thrill of fear through me. I could not suppress the cry of horror as I saw what lay between those enormous paws. For instead of the inert form of Sir Henry, there lay the body of my dearest friend, eyes open and staring, clearly dead.

But somehow, more chilling than this sight was the sound which issued from the jaws of this apparition. More piercing than the keenest winds of the moors it was said to inhabit, it was a howl that evoked all of the darkest and painful memories of my life. No sooner had this thought entered my mind then the procession of recollections began.

My new friend, awakening with a choked cry from a nightmare of war, brought about by the grim murders we had investigated on our first case together.

My struggle against that master of criminals, the thunder of theReichenbach Falls, and the possibility that death was close.

The heartbroken cries of Watson, calling my name again and again. Beneath each repetition a desperate hope that I would answer, and as so often occurred before emerge triumphant having captured yet another criminal.

My struggle to save the life of my dearest friend aboard the vessel Friesland.

Finding Watson during the affair at Weissberg Castle, injured and near death from exposure to the elements.

Through my mind ran the words of Wagner's hymn to death and love I had quoted to Watson only yesterday.

So let us die and never part

Together for the rest of time

How accurately those lines reflected my unspoken wish, that Watson and I would be spared the pain of being parted by the hand of death, that we could explore the greatest mystery of life together, in all its awesome splendor and glory.

No sooner had this thought been given form, than other images rose before me. And although I knew they were brought about by those damn crystals, indeed had little to do with reality or past memory, the horrors I witnessed during that hour were unspeakable.

Out of the darkness emerged every enemy Watson and I had brought to justice. Their specters surrounded me, each holding their weapon of choice, and began to speak of the tortures to which they would subject my dearest friend, as vengeance for us having brought them to justice. Each had their turn; each threat took form before me as it was described in detail by each criminal.

But mixed with these moments of horror came other memories and impressions. For in that hour I also witnessed moments of joy.

The first meeting between myself and Watson.

Various triumphs concerning a particularly difficult criminal's capture or imprisonment.

Moments shared with my brother and other friends of our acquaintance.

The sheer wonder of music, mastering the violin works of great composers, and basking in the performances of talented musicians.

Pleasure became pain, joy turned to sorrow, until the flood of conflicting emotions overwhelmed me and I could do nothing but beg for release from this darkest of torments.

I wanted to cry out, to beg heaven to stop this dreadful series of memories twisted by the influence of these unknown crystals. But despite my best efforts I could not give voice to my request, only repeat it in the turmoil of my thoughts.

And when at last the cry burst from me, it was neither a prayer for deliverance, nor the frantic disjointed sentences of one on the brink of succumbing to darkness. My need to escape this labyrinth of memories and nightmares was expressed in a single hoarse cry, a plea for help to the most loyal and truest of friends.

"Watson!"

Note from the authoress: Goodness, I never expected this chapter to turn out the way it did, hope it wasn't too dark for you readers. This is my first attempt at a Sherlock Holmes story. I've just recently joined this site, and am still rather nervous about sharing my writing. I've enjoyed Doyle's stories, and the BBC productions of the Holmes adventures for ages, and never expected I'd be writing a short story based on one of the mysteries.

My thanks to KCS, and Protector of The Gray Fortress, whose works have been the inspiration for this tale.

I hope you enjoy this story and look forward to reading any comments.

Next chapter is Watson's perspective.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson

Over the course of our friendship, Holmes had proposed many dangerous ventures and strategies in the hopes of bringing a criminal to justice. But never one as fraught with danger as the one on which we now embarked. For although we were once again investigating a crime, this test Holmes thought necessary involved no logical deduction, or desperate chase to capture a criminal. Instead, we sat and waited, for we knew not what, in a silence so strained that I wanted something, anything to happen to break this awful tension.

The darkness which began to surround me was unlike anything I had ever known. And though I tried to prepare myself for whatever horrors lay in store, I was not ready for what formed within my thoughts.

Shaped out of the secret places of my mind, it was a labyrinth as complex and deadly as that ancient maze constructed by Daedalus. But unfortunately there was no Ariadne to provide me with a way of escape, nor seek from the labyrinth's creator a silken thread to guide me home. For this labyrinth was a place formed of the darkest recollections and thoughts of my mind, brought to horrific life by those seemingly insignificant crystals.

Then should I not be able to master it? Could my freedom from this darkness be brought about by my own effort? Or did the key to release lay in conquering the darkness by walking through it, and enduring whatever lay in store?

As if in response, the darkness before me thickened, and then parted to disclose a procession of images. They were the dark thoughts, the memories I had fought so hard to lock away in the deepest recesses of my mind. I tried to turn away, but the darkness surrounded me, and in one endless wave of pain swept over me, consuming and triumphant.

Even now, as I recall that hour, I cannot help but shudder at the memories I relived. Memories of battle, loss and death passed before my eyes in such rapid succession, that I was unable to truly grasp their full horror. Desperately I fought against the relentless tide of memories, seeking one recollection in particular that I could use to combat these specters.

"Orpheus." The voice of my beloved Mary, strong and living filled my thoughts. Even in the midst of this utter darkness, I could not help but smile at the memory.

How many times Mary had called me by the name of that ancient hero, since the night of our wedding when we rested content and secure in our love. I had laughed at her use of that name, but she had always maintained that I had been the one to restore her joy in life, to lead her out of the darkness of uncertainty and fear she had endured since the disappearance of her father. And so the names of that legendary couple had become our most treasured terms of endearment.

I clung to that bright memory with grim determination. I would not allow these specters to claim the precious times I had shared with my dearest Mary. Even as the thought took shape, all became still and silent about me. It was as if the darkness possessed human emotions, for I could have sworn I felt the merest breath of anticipation, of my unspoken challenge being considered, and readily accepted.

Holmes no doubt, would have called it the workings of a romantic and overactive imagination, but having spoken to him of his own experiences with these crystals I know he shared a similar torment. And what I felt in that breathless pause, before the darkness assumed its most twisted aspects was a strange triumph, as if the darkness had effortlessly plucked the worst memories from my mind, and was now about to claim and distort them in an attempt to prevent me from winning my freedom.

"Watson!" I froze at the sound of my dearest friend's voice. Good God, was he here too? Were we somehow sharing similar experiences? No, that was impossible. No matter how deep our friendship, I could not believe that somehow we were sharing this nightmare together.

Utter nonsense, would be Holmes observation. If I could just think rationally and clearly, I would be able to find my way back. But these damn crystals were making that plan impossible to follow.

I continued on, holding fast to the memory of my wife, my only protection against the trickery of this labyrinth. And as I walked Her image grew clearer before my eyes, momentarily driving back the dark and showing the way ahead. It was no longer a nameless darkness which sought to devour me, no, it was Hades, preventing me from leaving his kingdom with trickery and deception. And although I did not possess any musical gift like Orpheus, I was sure I could match that ancient musician in sheer determination and stubborn resolve. Doggedly I forged ahead, every step an effort as the shadows sought to hold me back, conjuring up a myriad of horrific images at the bidding of their lord. These were a thousand times worse than my own memories, for they were born of the unwanted nightmares, and the unacknowledged thoughts that wait in the deepest reaches of the mind.

The specter of my Eurydice glided before me, and although I welcomed her presence, a part of me could not help but wonder if she was yet another apparition these devilish crystals had conjured to torment me. But her form was too real, too solid for it to be anything but a memory uncorrupted by the darkness.

So I followed, and in a strange reversal of roles it was Eurydice who bid me come, and not look back lest the darkness consume me.

Desperately I tried to ignore the shadows that smothered me from every side, focusing what remained of my will on clinging to my most treasured memories. For a time this strategy proved affective, as the procession of nightmarish images lessened.

But the worst was yet to come.

It was so sudden and unexpected a sight, that at first I could not believe what lay before my eyes. Even now I fear words would be a poor vehicle for describing what confronted me. If I had thought the darkness I had endured so far terrible, what stretched out before me eclipsed it in horror and sheer size. At first glance it appeared to be a pool, or waterfall, made not of water, but a living, moving darkness. Even as I gazed at it, the rational thoughts I still possessed rebelled against what my eyes beheld, seeking to convince me of the impossibility of such a creation.

And in that instant, as the specter of Mary inclined her head in a gesture of acknowledgment and confirmation of my unspoken query, I knew what I must do.

Gathering the last of my strength, I let myself fall into the churning darkness. And made the chilling discovery that this was definitely not water, but all of my most vivid and painful memories. In order to reach my friend, I would have to relive each afresh, and like Orpheus resist the temptation to turn and look back regardless of what I heard or saw.

A young soldier, no more than a boy who I struggled to save from the hand of death.

The sounds of combat, merging with the screams and groans of the dying.

Rows of wounded soldiers and civilians, those I had fought to save but in the end had been unable to help.

Holmes, waiting for that master of criminals to confront him, knowing that death may claim him.

The feverish moments of terror aboard the Friesland.

Do not look behind you. Those words resounded in my mind with all the force of the strictest of commands. I fought the urge to turn, knowing that everything depended on me mentally returning to the safety of our cottage.

Again I heard the echo of my friend's voice, calling for help. It was then I realized, the cry had not come from behind me, but from ahead. Strength born of desperation coursed through me, and I redoubled my efforts to reach my friend. And always before me, strong and real I held the memory of Mary on our wedding night.

But there came a moment when even that precious recollection could no longer shield me against the enemy I sought to conquer. As if sensing my weakness, the darkness strengthened its hold, seeking to drag me beneath the surface of this stygian river.

Some instinct, born of the need to not endure this ordeal alone, caused me to reach out to the specter of Mary. And to my utter astonishment I found myself clasping neither a corpse, nor an ephemeral ghostly form, but a real and living body. Perhaps it was because we were both in the realm of memory, or my refusal to relinquish my hold on our treasured moments which granted me this extraordinary privilege.

Whatever the reason, I thanked God that she was here with me, that we could take this treacherous journey together.

I held the specter of my Eurydice close, reveling in the warmth and solidity of her body pressed against mine in a desperate embrace. For these few moments, even amidst the darkness, she had been restored to me, her memory given life by the strength of my will, and the need for her to share in this surreal journey.

We fought, using our combined strength against the shadows which sought to destroy, to twist and corrupt our years together.

There came a final moment, when the shadows reached out with deadly purpose, their icy fingers grasping, dragging us beneath the surface.

This was the final test of our courage before I could return to my friend, and I intended to emerge victorious. But it was by far the most terrifying of the experiences I had endured. Tendrils of darkness wrapped around us, dragging us down into an existence utterly devoid of light or joy. Powerful currents sought to separate me from my beloved, and I felt her draw me closer, wanting to both receive and impart strength to my battered psyche.

Beneath that stygian surface there was no direction, no sense of which way meant freedom, just the relentless crushing presence of pain and grief, despair and indifference.

Where did one end and the other begin? I could not say, accept that each fleeting emotion became a raging flood which sought to destroy us.

It was then I saw the look of grim purpose on my Mary's face, and realized how escape might be possible. Together we joined our wills, our remaining memories of warmth and affection, and our regard for a friend in need.

And the shadows reluctantly parted, allowing us safe passage to the surface.

In the instant before my return, I saw the look of triumph on the face of my Eurydice, mingled with a look of great affection and the promise of reunion after death.

With one final desperate effort, I broke through the shadows, returning at last to the sight of my closest friend. Relief coursed through me as I struggled to drag Holmes outside.

I had survived a journey as horrific and dark as the legendary quest of Orpheus. But unlike that ancient hero I had returned from the underworld, having walked its darkest paths, delivered by the loving memory of a wife as faithful as Eurydice, and my regard for the most steadfast and constant of friends.

Note from the authoress: Yikes, that chapter was harder to write than the last one. I hope it made sense. I had so many ideas for how I wanted it to turn out, so I hope it wasn't confusing for my readers.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, I appreciate all of your encouraging and constructive comments.

Next chapter is the conclusion.


	3. Chapter 3

I have no name, for I exist on the fringes of mortal consciousness, choosing to make my presence known in the realm of nightmares alone.

For I am what many seek to suppress, ignore or forget, the darkness within each human soul, the unacknowledged possibilities which many refuse to consider.

And I have existed since the fall of mankind.

As the world spoken into life by the creator succumbed to the siren call of the dark, I took root in the minds of men.

As humanity flourished, learned to heed my voice and to court the darker desires of the soul, so my hold over the mortal world became secure.

During the first centuries of the human race, it was a simple matter to make my voice heard. For war in those first ages of men was fought openly, with many driven to fight by a lust for revenge, glory or power. Those who fought for their kin or homeland did not interest me greatly, for they possessed the strength to turn from the call of the dark.

Yet there was no challenge or joy for me in those times, for the conquest of dark over light, terror over reason was far too easily achieved.

It was not until men learned to wage war in secret, concealing their true purpose beneath a mask of calm or pretended friendship, that I was able to flourish as never before.

For men had at last perfected the art of suppressing unwanted thoughts or memories, confined them to the deepest recesses of their minds, in the hope that in time they would cease to exist.

And in moments of physical and mental weakness my hour has come at last. For only then can the mind fully unleash the power of my voice upon the chosen victims.

Each mind is unique, the darker thoughts and memories often lay dormant, awaiting some event or passing remark to reawaken their power.

For some it is memories, or fears, or the strong emotions of grief which awaken the call of darkness.

And in the case of two men, it is through seeking dangerous knowledge, that they come to understand the horrors they unknowingly keep within.

The first mind is cool and organized. The mind of one devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, unconcerned with the trivial aspects of mortal existence.

His is a unique mental landscape, logical and precise, carefully concealing all emotion beneath a deceptive layer of calm.

But Buried deep are the recollections of loss, pain, humiliation and regret, and the darker urges of the soul which he refuses to acknowledge.

The world may think him nothing more than a cold and methodical man, with a mind as sharp as a newly crafted sword lifted from the cooling water.

I know the truth. He is a human capable of deep unwavering loyalty, and a sincerity in friendship rarely seen in the race of men. Those he allows to glimpse what lies beneath his chosen mask have found a truly remarkable friend and brother.

And now he has willingly chosen to walk the path of darkness unspeakable, to surrender to that part of his soul he has fought so hard to ignore.

I await him with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity, for this will truly be a most enjoyable test of the strength, endurance and courage of Sherlock Holmes.

The moment the crystals catch fire I can feel those carefully constructed walls begin to weaken. Slowly, relentlessly I begin to select the darkest recollections, pain and disappointments this one has endured, awaiting the moment when his senses are so confused and disoriented that resistance will be futile.

I do not have to wait long, for those seemingly insignificant crystals possess the power to twist and distort a man's perceptions of reality, producing torments so unspeakable that the strongest of minds will inevitably succumb.

According to my nature, I bring to the surface all he has fought so hard to forget or ignore, and watch as in his terror he calls for the aid of his friend.

He also has chosen this dangerous path in an attempt to bring a criminal to justice. But unlike Sherlock Holmes he does not underestimate the siren call of the dark, for he is intimately acquainted with the secret corners of his soul where I flourish.

It is always a great pleasure, to bring to the surface of a mind the darker thoughts, the unwanted memories and the myriad possibilities each presents, particularly to one who has strong bonds of friendship, affection and a sense of honor.

And this second mind has all this and more, a place where memories of war, death and fear continue to linger, providing an opportunity for my voice to be heard afresh.

Watson is stronger than his friend. For although Holmes has glimpsed the darker side of humanity, spent hours attempting to comprehend and put into mortal words its power and corruptive influence, he has never truly witnessed the destruction of which it is capable.

But Watson is another story. For he has traveled to other lands, seen the many faces of war, and fought his own battle against the darkness within his soul.

And so I am not surprised when it is Watson who discovers the only way to extricate Holmes and himself from this labyrinth. For in many ways he is better prepared than his friend for what waits ahead.

One fights with reason and raw strength of will, confident that he will find a way to combat the crystals influence. And though his is one of the strongest wills I have encountered, it is no match for the power of horrific memories freshly awakened and warped by the power of this African drug.

The other fights like a warrior cool and determined to escape the darkness by what means lay within his power.

And there is only one way to do this. A path few take knowing what is in store. For to willingly choose to relive the worst moments of a life, to struggle against the crushing grief and despair such memories evoke is a truly difficult task.

Yet he attempts it, drawing on the memories of joy and affection to give him strength and purpose.

One memory he holds most precious. That of his wife who death claimed through illness.

And it is through this memory he discovers the key to victory, to hold fast to one recollection of times uncorrupted by the dark.

Despite all attempts to turn him from his course, he stubbornly holds on, able to stand against the strongest apparitions I summon to weaken his resolve.

And as he relives each memory, refusing to turn and look back at the sea of churning blackness I know there can be only one outcome for these two friends.

For since the dawn of time there have always been men and women of extraordinary will and courage, with the strength to endure and hold at bay the darkness each human is destined to carry.

I can do nothing but allow these two safe passage.

 For they have each walked the labyrinth, and can depart in the knowledge that it is the strength of their friendship, courage, and a determination to cling to the warmth of treasured memories which has granted them this victory.

_Note from the authoress: I know I said in the last chapter that this update would be the conclusion. Unfortunately I'm having trouble coming up with anything that will tie up this story nicely, so thought I'd write this idea instead._

_This chapter is meant to give the darkness Holmes and Watson experienced its own voice. It is not meant in any way to be some sort of demonic presence, just a chapter which explores the labyrinth concept from another perspective._

_Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this tale. If anyone has ideas for the conclusion, email me and I'll definitely consider all suggestions._

_As always, feedback is welcome._


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